


Borrowed Time

by mythomagicallydelicious



Series: Back in Time [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Not What He Seems, De-Aged Grunkle Stan, Gen, Panic Attacks, just a lotta angst first, low self worth, stan's burn, stan's tattoo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-03-31 03:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13966029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythomagicallydelicious/pseuds/mythomagicallydelicious
Summary: Time is running low and any moment now the portal will activate and Stanford will be here, finally, after (all these) years. Stan braces for the moment and the entire family faces the fallout of Ford's return, Stan's de-aging, and how time has changed them all.





	1. 30

**Author's Note:**

> Beta Read by the awesome: @aba_daba_do  
> Thanks!!

Stan had shown them the secret door behind the vending machine earlier, to prove his claims and story, but he hadn’t taken them downstairs.

Together, leading the way, Stan takes them down into the pit of the house, his personal hell for the last two years. He looked as well, taking deeper note to how things have changed from his earlier runs to the basement. The watch he woke up wearing seemed to be alerting him to the same gravity anomalies that took Ford floating away from him two years ago.

Stan made sure to grip Mabel and Dipper’s hands tightly as they made their way down. He wanted to take no chances.

Finally they get to the portal room. The air is crackling with energy as the portal powers up before them. Stan keeps the kids behind the viewing window. They try to complain but their voices peter off when Stan looks them in the eye and says it’s for their safety. He ties rope around their middle to keep them in place in case gravity flips again.

As it counts down the final moments, Stan feels the anxiety and hope build in his chest until he feels he’s about to explode. He wouldn’t know how to fix anything if something went wrong at the end.

10…9…8…7…6…

What if Ford didn’t come through? What if he was injured? What if Old Stan was too late?

5…4…3…2…1…

And the world disappeared in a violent flash of blue-white light.

The rope he’d also tied himself down with frayed and snapped, sending him spinning through the air, slamming into the wall. His body knew how to take a hit, though. He got up, ears ringing, pulling the dead rope away from his body.

A shrouded figure was stepping forward from the (now falling apart) portal. A few wires were sparking and twisted metal hung from duct-taped portions of the wall. Stepping towards him was a man.

Stan couldn’t speak. He tried choking out words but he couldn’t believe it. _Old Stan had done it!_

He ran forward, Ford’s name on the tip of his tongue, arms out wide—

—and was abruptly shoved back. He was almost knocked over, but managed to catch himself a few feet back. Stan found he could speak again.

“Ford, what—?” but he was cut off from speaking as his brother pulled out a gun and trained it on him. Stan’s hands went up by his head and he froze. Memories too close for comfort flashing across his head— _Columbia, prison, escape, debt, Rico, dead, dead, dead_ —and he barely dared to breathe.

“Who are you, how did you know about this machine?”

“It-It’s me, Stanley.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed further. “Impossible. Stan would be my age. I _know_ this is my dimension. I’ll only ask once more. _Who are you and how did you activate the portal_?”

“Look, I can explain why I look so young. It’s weird, but please. Put the gun away, Stanford. I don’t want ya scaring the kids.”

Ford cocked his head. “Kids?”

At that moment Mabel and Dipper were finally able free themselves of the rope and ran into the portal room.

“Great Uncle Stan, are you okay?”

“Get the gun away from our Grunkle!”

Ford lowered the gun hesitantly, eyes flashing from Stan to the kids’ fierce expressions and back to him.

“Kids, I told ya to stay back,” Stan said, slowly, so as not to spook his brother into raising his weapon again.

“We can’t stay back if he’s gonna _hurt_ you, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel exclaimed, tugging one of his elbows down so she could hold onto one arm.

“Yeah,” Dipper agreed, “not even the Author of the Journals gets to threaten you.” He turned and puffed his chest out defiantly. The show of love pulled on Stan’s heart, but he returned his gaze to his brother. But Ford was no longer looking at him.

Ford cocked his head to the side, looking down at Dipper. “You’ve read my journals?” His voice was curious, but Stan saw him tighten his grip on his weapon momentarily.

“Read them? We’ve _lived_ them!” He broke into excitement for a moment before remembering Stan’s situation. “Oh, yeah, but you don’t get to hurt Grunkle Stan, Author or no!”

Ford put away his blaster, re-taking stock of the situation, his gaze calculating. “I would like an explanation, then, of who everybody is, and how you knew about this device.”

Stan, knowing he’d have to explain himself, took the easy explanation first.

“These little gremlins are your great niece and nephew, Mabel and Dipper. Shermie’s grandkids.”

“I have a niece? And nephew?”

Mabel looked up at them and felt the tension brewing in her grunkles, despite the awed tone the newcomer’s voice had taken. So she squeezed his hand once before letting go and stepping forward to shake hands with Ford. “Hi! I’m Mabel.”

Ford looked at the offered hand, back up to Stan, and back down again before kneeling, shaking her hand back.

“Wow, a full finger friendlier than normal! Cool!”

That got a small smile and quiet laugh from Ford. “It’s nice to meet you, Mabel.”

Mabel skipped back to stand beside Dipper, who she nudged forward with an elbow.

“And you’re Dipper?” Ford asked. Dipper nodded. “You said you’ve _lived_ my journals, what did you mean?” Ford put his hands on his legs where he was still kneeling, staring intently at Dipper.

“I found your third journal my first day here, and since then we’ve had _so many_ crazy adventures. I’ve learned so much about all the weird things in this town, it’s amazing!”

“I’m glad they were a help, my boy.”

Dipper made a small sound of excitement in his throat that everyone ignored as Ford stood and turned his attention back to Stan.

“And who are you?” he asked, voice taking a hard edge.

“Just-just hear me out, okay?” he waited until Ford nodded before taking a deep breath and continuing.

“Alright, this looks unbelievable, but I really am your twin brother. Stanley Pines.”

“How is that possible? You barely look older than you did thirty years ago.”

“I know, I know. But I’m not the Stan you’d be expecting. It’s only been two years to me, since I,” he took a calming breath, trying not to let his emotions make his voice crack, “since I pushed—since I pushed you in. But your brother has been working the last thirty years to get you back. I should be that old, but last night I accidentally ingested a weird plant from the forest that caused me to de-age back to thirty. That’s why we don’t l-look the same. Stanford, it’s me, and I gotta say this now before I lose it. I’m so, _huh_ , I’m so sorry, brother.” Stan felt his eyes fill with tears and he couldn’t stop them this time. “You—ugh—I missed you so much, I’m so sorry, I—“

Stan put his head down for a moment overcome. He furiously wiped at his eyelids and pretended not to notice Mabel clinging to his left leg and Dipper reaching up to pat his back in support. He hadn’t broken down so bad this morning, except for that little attack over the Shack being stolen, and he hated to repeat that performance now. Ford was frozen, his expression stuck in place except that his eyes were wide. Stan sniffed and looked back up to meet his brother’s eyes, determined to finish his story.

“I woke up this morning, expecting it to be 1984. Instead, these kids come downstairs and tell me its 2012, and I’m a great uncle. I got to the basement and discovered the old me had finally gotten the portal working, and had mere hours left until it activated again.”

Stan’s eyes threatened to spill with tears again. He hoped he wasn’t this weepy as an old man. No one would take him seriously. He looked his brother in the eye and spread his arms to the side.

“And that’s it. That’s what happened. I swear, Sixer, it’s me.” Stan knew he was babbling. He couldn’t help himself. But at the mix of emotions crossing his brother’s face, his words tumbled to a stop. Either Ford would believe him or he wouldn’t.

“It was an insanely risky move, restarting the portal,” Ford said cautiously, his eyes set but his voice low. “It could have caused the end of the world. Do you have any idea how serious this is?”

“Hey, I can barely keep the lights on. I don’t know how any of this was run after 1984, Ford. We, uh, we need a Magic 8 Ball so I can tell ya to _try again later_ ,” Stan chuckled nervously, waiting for his brother to continue on.

Ford looked him over, face unreadable. Stan wondered if he’d be able to read his brother better if he was his proper age, but somehow he doubted it. He felt Mabel and Dipper tighten their grip on either side of him, and he appreciated their support more than they could know. It really did feel like just yesterday he’d seen Sam at the funeral. Time seemed to both drag and fly in the last two years, but he still called Shermie’s family every couple of months and would listen to his nephew’s excited rambling about whatever he was interested in at the time.

Stan tried not to fidget, but it was hard. He felt more and more hopeless the longer Ford deliberated on him. What was his brother thinking? Did he want him to just go away again, like he’d said in their fight? Stan felt the pain well up in him again as he considered this. Ford’s words were still a fresh wound on his heart, the same way his shoulder still burned and pulsed.

Stuck in his musings, Stan didn’t realize when Ford stepped forward, a look he still couldn’t identify taking shape. Ford lifted his arms slightly and Stan looked him in the eye just in time to be caught up in a hug from his brother.

The first hug he’d had in over twelve years from Ford. Ford squeezed him briefly and Stan immediately brought his own arms around to hug Ford back. A lump formed in Stan’s throat and beside him he heard Mabel make a small squealing sound. Ford released him too soon for his liking, but Stan didn’t care. His brother was _here,_ and he wasn’t pushing him away again!

“It’s good to see you again, Stanley. I didn’t think…” Ford looked away for a moment, eyes panning over the basement, the kids, and finally back up to him. “Well, in any case. It _is_ nice to be back in my home dimension.”

Ford looked distracted and a bit conflicted at admitting this, but he didn’t look sorry. Stan took that for the best win he could in this situation. His brother used to like to pretend he was above emotions, but he knew Ford felt just as strongly as him. He nodded, smiling at his brother.

“So…are we going to stand in the creepy basement all night OR are we going to go upstairs and get to know everybody and their entire life stories part two: the portal edition?” Mabel asked excitedly, bouncing up on her toes.

“Yeah! We can have dinner and I can ask you all about Gravity Falls and the journals and stuff!” Dipper added, bringing out his pen and clicking it in his sudden enthusiasm for mysteries being answered.

“Yeah, let’s all head upstairs, we can figure out dinner and accommodations,” Stan said, turning him and the kids around. Ford followed behind them to the elevator, and they rode up in silence. Before they got to the stairs, Stan was struck with a thought.

“Oh, and Ford, uhh…upstairs isn’t gonna look like you remember it. I was surprised this morning when I woke up too, so, just be ready. It…it isn’t what you think, alright?”

Ford looked exceedingly wary at this cryptic warning. “What do you mean?”

But as they ascended the stairs and came out from behind the vending machine, Stan saw Ford’s eyes widen, his nostrils flaring and mouth thinning into a hard line. And that was just having been exposed to the gift shop.

“Welcome to the Mystery Shack, Grunkle Ford! A place of wonder and enchantment, for only thirty bucks a person!” Mabel did a little spin and picked up a Mystery Shack snow globe, shaking it and handing it to Ford. “And all the magic of the Shack is yours to take home for the low price of fifty dollars a souvenir!” she laughed and did a little dance around the shop.

Stan saw the effort Ford put into smiling and asking her about the Shack. Dipper cut in, eager to answer the Author’s question, clicking his pen faster as he wasn’t sure if Ford really approved or not. Dipper started rambling into a story about showing a _real_ attraction once when they were in charge, and why he thought it was okay there wasn’t anything really real inside, even though it wasn’t accurate. Stan knew none of this would help his case later, though.

Stan winced in thought of how Old Stan would never hear the end of this. At the time, turning the house into the Murder Hut made a lot of sense. He’d been starving and clueless and lost. He’d worked on the portal from his single book of instructions, but nothing was working. He spent three weeks that way, barely stopping for breaks to eat or sleep. He ended up passing out from exhaustion more than a few days.

But the Murder Hut saved him from all that. It was hard work getting it going and starting out, but he had a town full of idiots to convince to come up multiple times, for more “attractions” every time. It was enough to give him the boost he needed to start seriously figuring out a way to bring Stanford back. Every now and then he’d feel the guilt of taking his brother’s possessions and turning his house into a mockery of what Ford loved best, making more unbelievable attractions that would’ve gotten his brother called a crackpot for believing in. But if there’s one thing he learned from his homeless days, it was that if you let guilt eat you about what you were doing, you wouldn’t survive. Shame and guilt have no place when you’re trying to feed yourself and keep moving forward.

He just hoped Ford would understand that. While simultaneously hoping Ford never had to feel the same way he did while in the portal, and already knowing it was probably a useless wish.

They had a quick dinner of cereal and Stan stalling or redirecting most of the questions from the kids so that Ford could have a breather while he adjusted to being back. He sent them up to bed and when they complained he repeated himself, firmer, and for a minute he was shocked at how he’d sounded just like his Pa. But the kids started a game of tag on their way up the hall and any reluctance to leave vanished into thin air behind them.

Stan threw Ford a worried glance as his brother got up from the table, expressing his intent to explore the house a little bit. Stan followed a little beside and behind him, watching his brother’s body language carefully.

They walked the main floor of the house, and Stan winced at every disparaging grunt Ford made. His disapproval radiated the strongest in the gift shop, his displeasure at what his home had been turned into the clearest in that room.

“Really, Stan? What is all this? What have you done?” Stan scratched the back of his neck with one hand, looking away.

“Well, it’s a bit different from the last time I saw it too, heh, heh.” His nervous laughter died at the glare his brother gave him and he straightens up.

“But, well, I started the Hut uh, about a month after you were in the portal. I needed to eat, and everyone in town was asking for a tour of ‘the spooky science man’s house’ and one thing led to another and… here we are.” Stan shrugged his shoulders and glanced around the room.

“And based on the merchandise, you stole _my name_ to do it.” Ford said, his voice hard. Stan looked down, not even able to muster up a defense to the harshness of his brother’s tone. Ford paced away, making a disgusted sound in his throat before seeming to turn his attention to a new question to torture Stan with.

“All of this merchandise says Mystery Shack. What do you mean ‘the Hut’”? Ford asked as he returned to Stan’s side, pointing out the inconsistency that had stood out to Stanley earlier that day. He doesn’t know when he re-named the Hut, but it made sense if he had kept getting those complaints about ‘inappropriate for children’ that he did a few months after he first opened. Still, he winced at the question, feeling the stab of guilt at what he’d done to Ford all over again.

“Um… I was feeling pretty guilty at the time, and I was starving and a bit delirious… I named the tourist trap The Murder Hut,” Stan mumbled, looking away from his brother’s hard look. If he’d kept watching, however, he’d have seen Ford’s expression soften and his glare fall.

Ford took a deep breath and stepped closer to Stanley. He put a hand on Stan’s right shoulder as he talked, and Stan looked back up at his brother at the unexpected contact.

“I’m not pleased with how much has changed, or our current circumstances. But I can try to understand until we get this mess sorted out. Alright?”

Stan agreed, nodding. Ford squeezed his shoulder and clapped Stan’s back, once.

It should have been nothing. A friendly pat on the back. But it was right over his burn and Stan fell to one knee, groaning, breath coming hard between clenched teeth.

“ _Stanley?_ ” Ford bent with him, but Stan barely heard him as the fire erupted along his burn, setting his shoulder on fire.

“Stanley, what’s wrong?” Ford dug his fingers in tighter to Stan’s shoulders, having kept his grip on Stan as he’d fallen. Stan couldn’t contain a small cry of pain at the motion. He felt the wound pulsing, and he feared it would burn through his bandages again.

“ _Let go,_ ” Stan managed to get out. Ford immediately retracted his hand, looking hurt, hiding it behind his back. Stan started unbuttoning his borrowed shirt, trying to expose his burn.

“Stanley, what’s wrong? What are you doing?” Ford asked again, worry still dominant in his tone. Stan gently pulled the shirt off his right arm, trying not to move his shoulder too much. Now just in his undershirt, allowing the wound to breathe, he felt a little better.

He took a few more breaths before answering, trying to get his voice steady.

“Sorry about that, Sixer. I got a still-healing spot on my shoulder. You happened to clap right on it, and it burned.” Stanley grimaced as he stretched his arm out and felt his muscles pull and strain beneath the skin painfully.

“Let me look. I’m very familiar with treating many types of injuries, I’m sure I could re-bandage it for you,” Ford offered, moving to get himself behind Stan. Stan flinched and made sure his brother couldn’t see the burn, twisting his torso.

“No, no, I’m, eh, I’m sure I can take care of it. Don’t worry, bro.” Stan stood up, a little shaky, and began backing away. He didn’t want Ford to feel guilty about his injury. As distant or angry as Ford had been acting before, Stan didn’t want to risk making it worse.

Ford frowned and kept pace with him. “Look, Stan, it’s very difficult to properly tend to a shoulder wound on your back. Let me look at it.” Ford took hold of Stan’s left shoulder and held him still while he slipped behind him. Stan tried twisting out of the grip, but it was too late. He felt Ford pull the used bandages away, throwing them in the trash near the counter. He felt the moment Ford recognized the burn, his fingers tightening on Stan’s left shoulder in shock, then pulled away quickly. He heard Ford take a stuttering breath behind him. Stan hung his head low, embarrassment and guilt eating at him.

“Stanley…” Ford started, his voice small. Stan had no idea what was going through Ford’s head. But all Stan could see was his anger immediately after being branded. Shoving Ford back, pushing him into the portal. Panicking and yelling and a journal flung through the air and Ford’s last words ringing in his ears of, ‘ _Stanley, help me! Stanley, do something! Stanl—‘_ and Stan felt tears prick at his eyes as he hunched his shoulders, immediately hissing in pain, having forgot his injury as he got lost in the memories.

Ford cleared his throat behind him and when he spoke again, there was no hint of the vulnerability he’d had when he’d said his name. “Let’s get this bandaged properly. I assume the supplies are in the bathroom, still?” Stan nodded and the brothers turned and silently made their way upstairs.

Ford found some disinfectant and carefully ran it over the surface of the burn, making Stan wince and curse under his breath. Ford applied the dressings with a precision Stan knew could only come from experience, his brother’s claims at being familiar with a multitude of injuries making his head ache from trying to comprehend that his brother lost thirty years of his life to the portal. That it took him twenty-eight more years to rescue his brother.

Stan was so lost in his head he didn’t hear Ford say his name. It took a few tries but Stan finally broke out of his reverie.

“Thanks. You know, for helping with my shoulder.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Ford said softly.

“I guess I should let you shower and get changed. I’ve got a box of your stuff, I’ll bring it out and leave it in the hall for ya, alright?”

“You kept my things?” Ford asked, disbelief overriding the earlier fragility to his tone.

“Of course. I had to borrow a shirt today, but everything else is either packed away or repurposed. I sold as little as possible in the beginning, trying to keep everything you’d had before so it’d be ready when I got you back.” Stan looked around and tried for a joke. “I guess I didn’t keep that up too well over the years, huh?”

Ford didn’t laugh with him. All he gave was a quiet, “I suppose so,” and another lingering glance around the hallway.

“Be right back with your things. Don’t you go nowhere,” Stan said, trying to cover his discomfort and went to grab the right box. Interacting with Ford with this age difference was so strange. He couldn’t read his brother anymore. Couldn’t tell what was going on in that giant nerd brain. Stan wondered if Ford could still read him.

Even as kids, as awful as Ford could be reading other people, he always knew just what Stan meant or wanted to say. They’d lost that easy communication between them by walls and years part.

Stan picked up the box from his room and started back, wishing for the days when he could understand his brother were back, and they could be as close as ever. Like Mabel and Dipper. Stan sighed and dropped the box outside the bathroom, knocking to ensure Ford knew it was there.

-

Stan went up to the attic to check on the kids. He’d sent them up a bit early, but he thought he really needed the space with his brother. He was starting to regret that decision, but it was too late now. He stopped at the door and heard them talking, so he knocked and opened it up.

“Thanks for giving us some space. When you come down tomorrow take it easy on him, alright? Dipper, not too many questions. Mabel, no glitter or excessive crafting ideas too soon. Alright?” He waited a moment, watching their faces fall a bit from excitement. They each nodded and looked just serious enough for Stan to believe it.

“Okay, thanks ya little gremlins. Did you figure out how many days I get to be in my “prime” again?”

“Sorry Grunkle Stan, but at least two or three more days.”

Stan sighed and scratched his head. Mabel threw a stuffed animal at Dipper and made an exaggerated wave with her arm and head. Dipper straightened up on his bed with an ‘ _oh!’_

“Also, I want to apologize, Grunkle Stan. I had no right to try and turn you into a kid again. And now you’re in this mess and you have a twin and—“Stan walked over and put a hand on Dippers shoulder, stopping the flood of apologies.

“It’s alright kid. You didn’t mean any harm. It’s…rough, I can’t lie kids. But you didn’t know what was gonna happen.” Stan rustled Dipper’s hair and stood straight again, looking between the two of them, hands on his hips. “But life advice, kids: never put something in someone’s drink without their knowledge, got it?”

“Got it,” the kids chorused.

“Alright. Goodnight.” He swooped over to Mabel and noogied her head too, causing her to laugh the same way Dipper had, and walked to the door, flicking off the lights and closing it behind him as he left.

Walking back down to the main level, Stan started thinking. Dipper really had no clue what was going to happen that day. He shouldn’t have de-aged Stan, but he couldn’t be mad at the kid for long. He felt angrier at himself. Old Stan had worked for thirty years to bring his brother back. Stan had only been at it for two. Two measly, worthless, unproductive years. He’d spent a lot of time looking for the other journals. But with no luck, he’d realized he’d have to try and figure out the design with one-third of the notes and the husk of machinery left behind. He hadn’t gotten very far, especially with figuring out how to turn a profit at the Murder Hut taking up most of his waking hours.

Even pretending to be Stanford Pines, money still ran his whole world. Gotta keep the house, gotta keep the lights on, gotta work, gotta _do something_. It took him more than that first year to get a good idea of what running a long-term business would need. Learning the right way to rip somebody off so they came back for more, not back to run him out of town or threaten to bust his kneecaps. He stopped in front of the mirror at the end of the stairs, staring at his reflection.

 _I don’t deserve this reunion with Stanford_ , he thought. And he didn’t. He’d had two crappy years of pseudo-business and failed attempts at locating the journals. He’d barely started on the textbooks Ford had left behind, needing to check out simpler ones from the Gravity Falls library to even understand the first page.

 _I stole the reunion from myself_ , he thought. He laughed at that, an ugly bark of a laugh that made him feel cold when he finished. Out loud he spoke to himself, “I’ve always been a liar and a cheat. It’s about time I cheated myself, though.” And Stan watched a horrible grin cross his face and tears well up behind his eyes as he laughed in painful bursts.

He heard when Ford unlocked the bathroom door and came out on the floor above him. He managed to get his expression under control, so by the time Ford stood shoulder-to-shoulder beside him, also looking in the mirror, the horrible grin was gone. His eyes were red-rimmed and the look in them was a bit closer to the dead-stares he’d had during his homeless years, but he was sure if Ford was having as much trouble reading him as he was reading Ford, it wouldn’t be a problem.

Stan shifted his focus to Ford and his breath caught in his throat. Ford spoke first though, not noticing Stan’s panic.

“What happened to us? When did I become an old man?” he mused quietly.

Stan finally found his voice enough to say, “You look like Pa.”

Ford laughed at that but when his eyes flicked to his brother’s he didn’t see humor reflected there. Ford looked lost for what to say and Stan regretted his words. Now that Ford had cleaned up and shaven though, it was impossible not to see the similarities. Posture straight as a rail. If his glasses caught the light right, he couldn’t see his eyes. Dark hair and an impossible to read expression? Stan was thirty, but when he first looked at Ford, all he saw was the man who threw him onto the streets with a shoddily packed duffel bag and a worthless hope.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

“Stanley, what did you—“

The brothers tried breaking the silence at the same time and both paused, trying to let the other go first.

Stan didn’t want to see them as the same. But the last time he saw Ford, he was told he was worthless, to get as far away from his brother as possible. He wanted to take back his words, but flashes of their fight were coming to the front of his mind. Stan didn’t jump to fill the silence, this time.

Ford sighed, looking at his feet before back up to their reflections. Whatever he’d been going to say, it seemed he’d changed his mind.

“How long will you be this young?”

“The best bet is a few days.”

Ford nodded, taking in the information. He brought his hands behind his back to clasp his elbows. It was a sign Stan recognized as gearing himself up to speak. As kids, it usually came before something Stan knew he didn’t want to hear. The familiar gesture panged him with foreboding.

“It really was a terrible decision to restart the portal, you know. It’s dangerous.” Ford looked straight ahead as he spoke, not at Stan’s side.

“What was I supposed to do, leave you there?” Stan couldn’t believe this is what Ford decided to bring up now. He’d already said he was _glad_ to be back home! Why couldn’t he leave it at that?

“There’s technically no point discussing it with you, as you are a shadow of the Stan who actually activated the portal. But your intentions were the same, and I need you to know how insane it was for you to attempt to retrieve me.” Ford spoke stiffly, still avoiding eye contact, body language screaming _tension_. His words filtered through Stan’s mind and made him angrier and angrier the longer he replayed them in his mind.

“I can’t believe you right now. You _pleaded_ for me to do something as you were dragged through! And you wanted me to just forget about it? I’ve had nightmares every day since I lost you to the portal. A little _danger_ has never stopped me, Stanford. I’ve seen and done too much shit for that idea to scare me.” Stan’s voice was disgusted and angry, but he softened his next words.

“There’s no way I’d ever give up on getting you back. No matter how hard or dangerous or how far I was pushed away. That’s what family is, Poindexter.”

Ford looked up to meet Stan’s eyes, and Stan suddenly felt so young. Every bit of age difference between them and more. He felt like that seventeen year old kid again. The look Ford was giving him made him feel small and wrong-footed and he _hated_ feeling that way. He was about to ask _what gives_ when Ford finally replied.

“I wouldn’t have restarted it for you.” Ford spoke quietly but with conviction. Stan felt like he’d been sucker punched and stabbed and shot and dumped in ice-cold water all at once. He felt like he was branded on that grate a hundred times over. But Ford kept speaking, ignoring Stan’s roiling mind and emotions. “If it were you or the possibility of the world ending, I wouldn’t risk it. Family or no. Neither you nor I am worth the world, Stanley.”

Stan couldn’t speak. He did what he always did when he was injured and cornered. He lashed out, catching his brother in the jaw. The punch sent Ford to the ground, his brother not expecting this reaction. Ford quickly jumped to his feet, ready to retaliate, for a fight, but there was nothing more.

Stan was done.

He sidestepped Ford and walked woodenly up the stairs to his room, closing the door and the sound of Ford trying to call him back. He ripped off the bandages on his shoulder, feeling the rip of the tape and relishing in the slight pain it brought as his brand was exposed to the open air again. He turned to the corner where an old, scuffed up punching bag hung from the ceiling. He punched and jabbed until he could barely see straight, cool sweat running down his forehead. He ignored the feeling of hot tears mixing with it, sniffling and snarling and muttering unintelligibly as he threw everything he had into the bag.

When he could barely stand he turned and stumbled to the bed, falling into it and curling up into a ball on one side, holding his pillow with both hands and staring at the wall until he fell asleep, still occasionally muttering through his tears.

He’d gone through so much today. Achieved his greatest dream. He wanted to say it was all for nothing, but he couldn’t. Even though this evening proved Ford really did hate him, he couldn’t be mad that some version of him had managed to make the portal work. He couldn’t be mad that he’d gotten his brother back. Ford hadn’t deserved being pushed in.

The thought that _he_ should’ve been the one to disappear into the portal came back. He was always the useless, worthless twin. If he’d gone in, all of Ford’s problems would’ve been solved. No more brother to hold him back, to get in his way. Ford had told him tonight. He wasn’t worth it. Ford didn’t care about him.

Those ten years he’d been on his own, he’d directed most of his anger at his Pa. He was the one who kicked him out with nothing. He was the one who forced him to do horrible things just to stay alive, to eat, to keep moving forward. He was the one who dangled a worthless hope over his head of being able to come home.

Stan could never go home. Home meant having a family, and he didn’t have one. Not according to Ford. He wasn’t worth the energy a family would spend on him. Ford was worth that family. Stan had only been able to spend time with the remnants of his family because he was pretending to be Stanford. If they’d known he was Stanley, they’d never let him near them.

He was a screw-up.

Ford didn’t want his help. Ford didn’t want him to bring him back. Ford only helped his shoulder out of pity. Ford didn’t care.

Stan squeezed the pillow in his hands tighter. Finally his exhaustion overtook him, early as it was, and he slept, dreams twisting and turning and pointing out his flaws. But he slept all night, and didn’t wake until the next morning.

 

-

Ford regretted his words.

They were true, but he hadn’t really prepared himself for the spasms of pain he watched flash across his brother’s face. Or prepared himself for the following punch, either. Stan’s strength surprised him for being so young, knocking him clean off his feet. He hadn’t been bowled over so completely in at least eight years.

He tried calling after Stan, but his brother hadn’t shown he’d even heard Ford as he walked away. Their short conversation played over in his mind, as well as other thoughts crowding and overlapping each other as he tried to figure out what just happened.

It wasn’t often Ford was offered a chance to get a good look at himself in the portal. There was little time to stop for such vanities. His hair had grown far grayer than he realized the last time he stopped to cut his hair back. He’d nearly had a mullet before he’d landed in the last parallel Earth dimension and met a parallel Fiddleford. He’d had the facilities to take better care of himself, but even then he didn’t look too closely in the mirror, mind still focused on completing the last components for the gun to defeat Bill.

He felt his frustration mount again as he imagined having to choose between defeating Bill Cipher and saving his home dimension from being torn apart. Having had his greatest enemy for thirty years _in his sights_ and then be forced to turn away in order to stop the Nightmare Realm from breaking through the portal. The portal he’d foolishly built back when he let his pride and ambition run his life. Ford shook his head to clear it, not wanting to let the anger and frustration fester there.

And coming out of the portal. Jumping through the blue and feeling his entire body alight with electricity, that familiar once-in-a-lifetime feeling. It was _the_ portal to his home dimension. It called to him in a way no other portal ever had. Those had been just tears between dimensions, veils he’d conveniently used and moved on from. But he couldn’t ignore this portal. Glowing electric blue in the middle of the roiling mass of colors and space of the Nightmare Realm. Ford had turned towards it before his mind could catch up with the decision enough to be angry with it.

Coming through, landing on solid ground and dim lighting, rainbow colors having exploded behind him and turned dark. A bright light had overtaken his vision, making him desperately glad for the traveling goggles he wore to shield his eyes. And stepping into the basement, eyes scanning the room and internally checking a list of all possible ways he could have ended up back here. There was only one way, really…

Stanley was the only one who could have known about the portal. He heard a commotion, a jumble of words dimmed by the scarf around his neck. Quickly undoing that and bringing down his eyewear, he spotted an intruder coming towards him, arms raised. Ford went into defensive mode. He’d pushed the intruder backwards and raised a gun to his head, not willing to take any chances.

And then how it had all played out. He’d risen his gun to his own brother’s head. He hadn’t wanted to believe the man’s claims of being his brother, but the proof was staring him in the face. He vaguely recalled what Stan had looked like all those years before, calling him up to Gravity Falls. But he looked enough like what Ford remembered himself looking like, that he accepted it much quicker than he normally would have.

And the kids, backing his claims, standing protectively in front of him. He had been amazed and struck with more than a little wonder at the idea of his family having gotten larger in the time he’d been away. He’d never really thought about what it would mean to have more family. He didn’t think it mattered, he’d never meet them even if they existed.

But now he was home and he had two bright kids in front of him; a great niece and a great nephew, twins! Twins like himself and Stanley. Twins that are bright and so very obviously of the Pines family, with their curls and inquisitive natures. He’d observed so much from them, even in the short time he’d had to get acquainted. He already felt his heart softening towards them.

But Stanley.

Stanley was nothing like he’d expected. Of course, their current age difference had some part to play in that, but even then, he hadn’t expected so much of his brother to have changed. The Stan he’d been confronted with today was nervous, quick to please, loud, but in a way meant to distract and turn around. He recognized parts of his brother’s ticks and tells, but some were entirely foreign. His brother was thirty years younger than him. So similar to the person he invited to his home to be his savior from Bill and his tricks.

That hadn’t worked out like he’d hoped. And then his brother had gone on to continue meddling with the world. He hadn’t taken the book and run, even after Ford disappeared, as would have been best.

 _Why couldn’t he ever just do what he was told?_ His brother always had to make things more difficult. From slacking off in school and pulling Ford into doing both of their work, to pulling him down and sabotaging his chance to really escape from Glass Shard Beach, to go to his dream school, Stan had been making life difficult. When he refused to take the journal, though. That was the worst moment of reticence on Stan’s part of all. Didn’t his brother know the fate of the world was on his shoulders? Why couldn’t his brother have just _listened_ to him?

In the parallel world, Stan had. He’d listened and taken the journal and gone away again and everything had ended up perfect. His counterpart had had almost everything he’d ever dreamed of, and more.

The more he thought about what Stan had cost him, the more frustrated with his situation Ford became. He thought about hours prior, when he’d been on his way to facing Bill Cipher, and had to make a choice to protect his dimension or defeat Bill Cipher for good, protecting the rest of the multiverse. But despite his anger there was a certain satisfaction in being back in his home dimension again. He’d known, deep in his soul, when he first saw that swirling blue light, that it wasn’t just any portal. It was his home dimension calling to him. Wanting to bring itself back into equilibrium. Thirty years away, and he still felt the draw to be home. The nearly irresistible pull to jump back through.

He’d followed that impulse, and now he was back.

But just because he did it, doesn’t mean it was smart or right. The portal never should have been activated _once_ , let alone twice. The destruction possible (and likely) wasn’t worth it. _His life_ wasn’t worth the end of the world. No one’s was.

And as he’d said moments ago, neither was Stan’s.

Ford rubbed at his jaw where he knew there would be a bruise, come morning. His brother, for being so young, packed a more wicked punch than he’d remembered. Perhaps he’d been too hasty in addressing this matter with this younger version of his brother, but he’d felt compelled to do so. He needed Stan to understand that what he’d done was wrong, no matter whether he’d personally achieved it two years or twenty-nine after the accident.

It felt like that punch had come out of nowhere. Maybe it was the age difference, their features being so different, but Ford was having trouble reading Stan. While deciphering emotions had never been his strong suit he’d been pretty adept at reading his brother growing up. And though Stan’s face hadn’t changed as much as his own in the time since Ford knew him best (nearly forty years is a long time, but it has only been twelve for Stanley, that should count in Ford’s favor, right?) he had no idea how to read or read into the emotions plastered openly on his brother’s face. He’d seen hurt, pain, anger, fear, and something else, but he had no context behind _why._

It was frustrating.

Ford had still been just standing in front of the mirror, but he figured he should clear the air with Stan before tomorrow. The kids would not be pleased they got into a fight after they’d gone to bed.

He walked cautiously up the steps, not making a sound out of habit. When he got to Stan’s door he paused, hearing an odd sound. A strange sort of wheezing, or snuffling. Ford brought one hand to his blaster and the other to the door handle to ease it open just a sliver. It was enough to see his brother’s profile, laying on his bed.

Crying. _Hard_.

That’s what the sound was. His brother desperately trying to muffle his own sounds as he clutched a pillow close to his chest, shoulders heaving and breath hiccupping into a deep sob, mumbling unintelligibly and looking miserable.

Ford hastily shut the door, retreating back to the main level’s living room. He ran a hand through his hair, troubled by what he’d seen.

Stanley didn’t…cry.

It seemed silly, maybe, but it was true. Besides today, Ford hadn’t seen his brother cry since the fourth grade, when Stan accidentally broke his arm. It was so—so wrong, seeing his younger brother completely losing it like that. So unlike him.

(He could excuse this evening when Stan had desperately wiped a few tears from the corners of his eyes while apologizing to him. He could excuse that as the dirty air of the basement making his brother’s eyes water as Stan had later claimed, as he’d graciously not mentioned because he could see that Stan meant every word. However, Ford also didn’t stop to wonder how he’d know the difference between what Stan is normally like and right now, as he didn’t know the first thing about his brother and hadn’t since he’d been kicked out).

Ford took off for the basement, trying to shake the unsettling sight from his mind. He was quickly successful when he came upon the portal and realized a rift truly had formed as a result of his brother’s actions. Cursing Stan briefly for ignoring his warnings, he spent the rest of the night fashioning a containment device for it and didn’t give his brother a second thought until the next morning.


	2. 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another age. And while the situation is still unsure, the family manages to find a whole dungeon's worth of fun out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's art was a commission done by the amazing @infriga (on tumblr) Thank you so much!!!
> 
> Here's a link to the art piece, while I try to figure out how to post it on here plain: http://infriga.tumblr.com/post/172287524204/heres-another-finished-commission-this-was
> 
> Here's a link to their page, to check out all of their amazing other art: http://infriga.tumblr.com/
> 
> (I did not hit my beta up for this one, bc it's been 84 years and it made me feel bad for having such a big time gap, ha.)
> 
> Warning in this chapter, early on there's some bad mental head space stuff for Stan; a panic attack; and later a bit of a reminder that Filbrick Pines is a shitty father and emotionally a brick.

Ford looked back over the last night and decided he would play it as if their final conversation hadn’t happened. Hopefully Stanley would follow his lead and they could be cordial to one another, at the very least. He didn’t have the time or energy to waste on arguing when the fate of the world hung in the balance. And… it really had hurt, somewhat, to be able to hear Stan moving around upstairs after he’d left him. When he’d crept to the door and heard sniffles and rough breathing and words muttered indiscriminately, Ford had crept back down the stairs without knocking. He didn’t want to face Stanley again.

Before his coffee had a chance to finish percolating, however, he heard his brother moving around above him. It was still too early for the kids, even after the early bedtime they’d had, and Ford hoped dearly that Stan could ignore their altercation last night.

When the steps echoed down the staircase, Ford busied himself with pulling a mug from the cabinet, not looking back to see his brother’s expression. He wouldn’t be able to stand it if it was the same pain from the night before. He hoped Stan would follow his lead.

Apparently Stan did _not_ want to pretend nothing happened, for when he entered the kitchen he heard a sharp intake of breath from behind him.

“What the hell?”

Ford winced and sighed, flexing his hands against the counter. Apparently Stan was _not_ in a mood of pretending last night’s conversation didn’t happen. Turning around, raising one hand in a placating manner, Ford narrowly avoided being brained by a baseball bat. Stan swung again and Ford went into defensive mode, dodging again and grabbing near the base to leverage it out of Stanley’s hands.

He kicked it behind him and lunged forward to grab Stan’s fist before he could aim another blow. He twisted it behind his brother and held him there.

“What are you doing, Stan?” Ford hissed, trying to calm his instincts to attack back, to injure and flee. _This is Stan_ , he reminded himself.

 _Stan doesn’t care about hurting you_ , the bruise on his cheek replied.

Stan struggled for a moment before giving up

“Look, if you want money, I don’t got a lot, but you can take it, I swear! Just let me go and we can talk this out.”

Ford stared at the back of his brother’s head. _He must have cut his mullet off last night_ , Ford thought. But that wasn’t the only thing bothering him. Stan felt…proportionally different than he had last night. And his words made no sense. And something about the skin on his right shoulder didn’t seem right either…

Oh, his brother was still waiting for an answer.

“You know I have no need of money, Stanley.”

Ford felt his brother tense up at that, but Ford wasn’t sure why.

“Then who sent ya? Was it Rico? All that was years ago. Grudges should’ve been dead by now, right? Ten years is long enough to talk this through, amigo.” Stan’s voice held that blatantly false, cheery thread to it. Stan used to use a similar tone when they were teens and he was trying to point out the bright side of failing a math test or after a particularly harsh scolding from their father.

Ford didn’t know who this _Rico_ was, but the way Stan spoke put Ford on edge.

“Stanley, we need to talk. I’m going to release you. Please, refrain from attacking me until you get a good look.” Ford waited for a sign he understood from Stan before releasing him and stepping back a few swift paces.

Stan whirled in place and defensively brought his fists up.

Now, facing each other in the early morning light, Ford understood what was happening. His brother’s hair was trimmed closer to his head. His brother’s gut hid itself better today than it had yesterday. His brown hair already getting hints of gray at the temples, despite his obvious youth. Stan stood straight but his shoulders were hunched. And his eyes, though currently wary, held a peculiar haunted look to them. A look Ford knew he’d personally achieved over the years as well.

Ford raised his hands up on either side of his head, showing he wasn’t holding a weapon…and displaying his anomalous sixth fingers.

“Stanley…do you know who I am?” Ford asked softly.

Stan’s eyes flickered between Ford’s face and his hands, unthinkingly lowering his fists as realization and shock covered his face instead. He took a hesitant step forward, fragile hope in his eyes.

The look made Ford’s heart lurch.

“Stanford? _Brother?_ Is that really you? After—after all these years, you’re finally here?” Stan’s voice was breaking, having to stop and restart his last sentence a few times before spitting it out, haltingly coming nearer to Ford.

Ford lowered his arms slowly. “Yes, Stan. It’s me, Stanford.”

Stan’s eyes were glassy, the haunted look replaced only by joy and love. Lunging forward faster than any strike he’d attempted that day, Stan dove forward, arms open to tackle Ford into a bone-crushing hug.

Ford was ready for this response, and had his arms freed from his sides in order to lightly return Stan’s embrace. He felt sobs shake his brother’s body and a wet patch growing on his shoulder.

Ford was alarmed. He had dismissed Stan’s previous emotional instability as due to the effects of the plant and his younger age. Yet this Stan was also displaying clear signs of emotional vulnerability that Ford felt was deeply unfamiliar to the both of them.

But Ford temporarily ignored that in favor of patting Stan’s back somewhat awkwardly and waiting for his chance to explain his presence.

When Stan finally lifted his head, he took a short step back, hands on Ford’s elbows, and looked him in the face. Stan looked stricken.

“What happened to you in there, Sixer? You’re so old, I… I’m so sorry, Ford. I didn’t mean to push you. I was just so angry. I’m sorry. I did this to you, oh Moses.” Stan put one hand to his mouth and the other pushed through his hair, severing contact with Ford and backing away.

Ford frowned. Yes, Stanley pushed him in, but aging is a natural process for all. His appearance shouldn’t be _quite_ that shocking. It was clear Stan by this age had also grown and changed.

“Stanley, if you’d just allow me to explain, you’ll find your responses are disproportionate to your actual blame in this matter.” This specific matter, of Ford’s appearance and Stan’s age, couldn’t be helped. In other matters, such as fixing the portal at all? Well, Stan could use some humble pie to learn what a stupendously terrible idea that was, as it could very well doom the world.

“How old are you, Stan?”

“Thirty-eight. We’re thirty-eight, Sixer.” Ford nodded, taking notice of Stan’s hysteric tone.

“Sit down, Stanley,” Ford sat at the table and waited for Stan to join him. “You are thirty-eight, Stan. But we are actually 58. You accidentally ingested a plant that de-ages you, and apparently takes your memory back to what it was at that age.”

Stan looked like he was taking in Ford’s words, desperate for any explanation.

“Then, when did I get you back? Ten years, Ford, it’s already been _ten years_ and I’ve only got your first journal. I’m sor—“Ford cut him off before he could apologize once more.

“Yesterday. You opened the portal yesterday, and I came through. You did it, Stan. You got me back.” Ford put on a bright, fake smile. He was still angry at his knucklehead of a twin for activating it, despite his warnings, but that could wait. _This_ Stan looked on the verge of a breakdown. As it was, Stan’s breathing suddenly became very hitched and shaken.

“Thirt—thirt—thir, _dam it!_ _Three decades?_ It took, it took me _that long_ to save you?” Stan’s face was going red and his voice was getting rougher. Ford didn’t know what to do.

“Stanley, no, wait—“

“ _I’m the worst brother in the world,”_ Stan struggled to breathe, gasping and crying. He watched as his brother fell apart, right before his eyes this time.

Ford’s brain had shorted out the night before, catching his brother crying. He’d backed away and backed off and blocked it from his mind as he focused on his anger at the consequences of Stan’s earlier actions.

If he’d thought of it again at all, he’d blamed it on the unknown properties of whatever plant Stan had ingested, throwing Stan’s body chemistry into chaos, eliciting various reactions and behaviors that would differ from the norm, presumably.

Thus, the tears.

Yet once again Ford is frozen in shock as he sees his brother breaking into some sort of panic attack, breath shallow yet chest heaving, sobbing and tears falling between the cracks of fingers pressed tight to his face.

His brother was crying, still trying to speak, berating himself with strong language, breaking further into pieces as he sat and stared.

And Ford’s brain felt as if it were shorting out again.

Stan didn’t…cry. Yet here he was again, clearly a few years older, but still crying. Their pa would’ve been furious. ‘ _Real men don’t cry. They either face their trouble or get over it. No use **crying** about it like a wussy._ ’

“Stupid, _stupid,_ worthless, can’t d-d-do anything, can’t do anything _right,_ all my fau-m-my fault. _Stupid fucking waste of_ —“

And just like that, Ford snapped out of his shock. He _couldn’t_ let his brother talk about himself like that.

“Stanley, don’t say that about yourself. That’s not true.”

Ford’s anger and justifications of the night before slipped to a back corner of his mind as he spoke to his brother. He quickly gave up on trying to combat the words Stan hurled at himself, however. It only made his brother shake harder. Instead he took a few deep breaths and led Stan into regulating his own.

“In, two, three, hold—out two, three, there you go, Stanley. In—“he said gently, as he came to stand beside his brother.

After some time Stan had a better handle on himself and his tears petered off, helped along by a few self-conscious coughs and a quick rub with the back of his wrist to his eyes.

“Heh, those uh, those allergies, eh?” Stan asked, lying ostensibly to Ford’s face as he continued trying to wipe his nose on his arm. Ford shook his head.

“It is that time of year,” he replied in a neutral voice.

“I—I’m glad you’re safe, Sixer. Even if it did take old me thirty years to do it.”

Ford bit his tongue from correcting Stan about his “safety.” With the immediate problem of _Stan, he’s crying oh god what do I do_ solved, his feelings on being brought back to this dimension trickled back in. Stan ‘rescuing’ him is what is currently putting them all in danger, with the rift formed and hidden downstairs and already scratching at its confines. In the end he settled for a nod.

Before either had a chance to speak again, however, Ford heard stirrings from upstairs, and two sets of feet pounding down the stairs. _Ah, Dipper and Mabel must be awake,_ he thought.

Stan, on the other hand, had no idea, and dove out of his chair for the baseball bat, lifting it and pushing himself in front of Ford, as if to protect him.

“Stan, wait, it’s just the kids.” He jerked the bat once more from Stan’s grip as Stan turned to him, confused.

“Kids?”

Ford opened his mouth to reply when Mabel and Dipper entered. Mabel squealed as she launched herself at Stan.

“You’re older, but still young!” She clung to his waist and Stan tensed, leaning as far out of the hug as he could but otherwise not doing anything. (It was better than Ford’s initial reaction to them, as he’d wanted to pull his gun on them in the strange circumstances of yesterday.)

“Who are you? What’re ya doing in this house?”

“Wait, you’re saying you don’t remember _again_?” Dipper asked, pausing in place with the fridge half open. “How old are you today?”

“Thirty-eight. How old was I yesterday?”

Mabel let go and backed away to look at her great uncle.

“Thirty,” Ford said.

Stan looked a bit pained at this information, but it was quickly wiped off his face as he turned back to Dipper and Mabel.

“Alright, so whose kids are ya? Mine?”

“Ha, ha, no, Grunkle Stan! You’re our great uncle,” Mabel said, pushing at him and giggling.

“Grandpa Shermie,” Dipper added, abandoning the fridge and coming to stand by Mabel.

“No way. Nuh-uh. That means you pipsqueaks belong to Sam, and I just can’t believe it. He’s barely started college! When’d he have time to pick you two up, huh?” Stan had a teasing grin on his face as he crossed his arms and shook his head dramatically.

“You better believe it, old man. And we’re not pipsqueaks. We’re almost thirteen! Teenagers!” Dipper replied.

“And would you almost-teenagers happen to have names or—?”

“I’m Mabel! You’re favorite great-niece. This here is my twin and favorite bro-bro, Dipper!”

“Mabel, I’m your _only_ brother.”

“Still my favorite, Dipper!”

“Ha, you’re so weird.” Dipper flipped her hair over her face. Mabel laughed and fell forward, purposely into Dipper. While the two tussled, laughing and teasing, Ford watched Stan carefully. His brother looked strangely distant, even with a large grin at the kids’ antics.

It had been years since he and Stan had seen each other. And even longer since they’d engaged in such a display. Ford wasn’t sure they ever really could, with everything between them. Everything Stan still had to answer for.

“Alright kids, that’s enough. I believe ya, you’re definitely part of the family. But on a weird, off-shooting branch. Hah!” Stan pulled Dipper and Mabel apart and the two grinned up at him. “How’s about we fix some breakfast, and you can tell me what’s the word with the Hut, eh? Pass me on some future knowledge?”

“Wow, you asked the same thing yesterday. What do you want to know, anyway?” Dipper asked, straightening his hat back over his forehead where it had gotten knocked askew by his and Mabel’s play.

Stan shrugged. “Eh, I don’t know? Yesterday it was 1992, how about what’s good on tv? Is Nirvana still a band? Do I still got a business here?”

Mabel perked up when asked about pop culture. She talked excitedly about the band Stan had mentioned and very animatedly about The Mystery Shack. Ford felt a twinge of annoyance run through him as she spoke about the different attractions his brother put up. They were a mockery of everything he’d ever studied! How could is brother do that—

“So… I have maybe one or two million questions about Gravity Falls and is now a good time yet or should I wait until after breakfast?” Dipper had popped up next to him with a nervous smile and materialized a notepad and pen he was clicking at the speed of light as he spoke. Ford was startled but recovered himself quickly. He felt a tentative smile appear on his face to match Dipper’s.

“I studied the mysteries of Gravity Falls for many years. What did you want to know, my boy?”

Dipper seemed on the edge of hyper-ventilation at the endearment that found its way to Ford’s tongue. Or maybe just excitement at the promise of trying to answer his questions.

Before Dipper could speak, Stan rumbled over, pushing Dipper towards the table and gesturing for Ford to follow.

“It feels like a cereal and toast day to me, kids. How about you?”

Ford nodded and Dipper and Mabel agreed. When Stan turned his back on them to go to the fridge, he saw Stan’s shoulders go slack, then tense again when he turned back toward them with milk. His grin was strongly fixed in place, but as Ford observed his brother he saw it twitch when Stan looked at him.

The kids seemed equally torn over the course of breakfast with talking to their slightly older, young Grunkle, and the new mysterious “Author.” Dipper had called him Mr. Author at least three times before Mabel poked him with her spoon and said “He’s a Grunkle, Dipper! Just call him by his name,” and Dipper turned bright red.

The kids wandered off after breakfast, leaving Ford and Stan alone for a moment. Stan stood and began piling the dishes in the sink, grabbing some soap and filling it up. Ford came to stand beside him on the drying rack side.

“That’s responsible of you, Stan. You used to hate doing dishes, if I recall.”

Stan shrugged one shoulder, looking nervous. “Well, I hate letting dirty things stack up now that I can do something about it. Easier to get work done in less mess. You know?”

Ford gave him a small smile as he was passed a bowl. “No, I guess I usually compounded my messes until I was working in a maze.”

Stan snorted. “Disorganized genius, right? That’s the name of the chaos system you made up?”

“It is a very real method of organizing, Stanley.”

“Yeah, okay. I still say you made it up to avoid cleaning your half of the room.”

Ford set the bowl down and picked up the next dish stacking up in the rinsed half of the sink.

“It’s too late to prove it now, anyways,” Ford deadpanned. Stan set the plate he’d been scrubbing back into the soapy water and turned to look at his brother. The nervous expression from earlier was wiped away as mock outrage took its place.

“You jerk, I _knew it!_ Could I get it in writing that you used your big nerd brain to throw me under the bus every other Saturday when Ma made us clean house? The family’ll never— _shit.”_

Before Ford could comment he heard footsteps pounding rapidly against the floor behind him, shouting coming down the hall.

“Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Stan it’s an EMERGENCY!” Mabel launched herself into the room in an explosion of glitter and toy duck merchandise.

 _Where did all the glitter come from? Does her sweater have pockets?_ Ford wondered, more intrigued by the mystery glitter than by whatever the problem was going to be.

“Hey, what’s wrong kiddo?” Stan asked, eyebrows drawn together, kneeling to the ground to be eye level with her.

“Today’s the finale of Ducktective and we were supposed to dress up and make snacks and watch it together BUT the show is way, way, _way_ ahead of your time! You won’t know what’s going on and _everything’s_ a spoiler!”

Stan looked at a bit of a loss at that. But he pasted on a smile and patted Mabel’s shoulder. “Hey, that’s alright sweetie, if TV is about the same now as it was twenty years ago, then we can catch the reruns next week and go even bigger on the celebration! I’m talking decorating the living room and making it a Goosetective—“

“Ducktective.”

“That’s what I said. A real marathon, with better snacks, costumes, and someone who actually remembers the plot. Is that okay?”

Mabel threw her arms around Stan’s shoulders. “Thanks Grunkle Stan! You’re the best!” she yelled as she squeezed him tight.

Stan laughed a little awkwardly as she hugged him back. “Heh, uh, no need to exaggerate, kiddo. It’s just a show. If I promised to watch it, I’ll keep it.”

Distantly Ford heard the front doorbell ring. He heard the creak of wood as the door was opened and shortly after he heard high, shrill screaming. Alarm flooded through Ford, and he turned to the doorway, where Stan was already shooting up and racing out of the room.

Ford followed him and they found Dipper in front of the open door, holding something and screaming. Ford took a position at the door, searching for the threat. His brother ran to Dipper first.

“Dipper! What’s wrong?” Mabel yelled as she came in behind them.

“Is it a monster? Which way did it go?” Stan knelt in front of Dipper, hand pulling one of the boy’s shoulders back so he was facing them.

“ _Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh!”_ Dipper was vibrating with—excitement.

Ford relaxed marginally, removing his hand from the butt of his gun as they realized simultaneously Dipper wasn’t in any danger.

He turned away from the door, shutting it, and focusing in on Dipper. Ford could see both Stan and Dipper’s face, his brother’s eyes were wide and his chest was heaving, but otherwise he seemed to be calming down slightly. Dipper was practically about to jump out of Stan’s hold on his shoulder.

“It finally came! I’ve been waiting for three weeks for this and it’s finally here! The newest edition of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons, my favorite board game Grunkle Stan!”

“Dungeons and—wait, that nerdy board game with the math and the hundred thousand rules?”

“ _You_ know about dd and more d?” Dipper asked, hope blooming on his face as his smile grew bigger, despite the confusion and slight disparagement in Stan’s voice.

“Yeah, ‘f course. It’s been around forever. Nerdlord back there used to beg me to play it all the time when we were kids.”

At that Dipper turned to Ford, face lit up even more than Ford thought possible. “ _The Author of the Journals likes my favorite board game?!”_ he yelled again, clapping a hand over his mouth but still screaming. Ford ignored that, recognizing it wasn’t the time to bring the yelling up. Besides, _yes_ , he did know this game.

“It is my favorite game in the multiverse,” Ford said solemnly. He cracked a smile and bent down to be on eye level with Dipper as they both quoted-

“With pen and paper, shield and sword, our quest shall be our sweet reward!”

“What did I do to get saddled with nerd junior, over there?” Stan asked to nobody in particular.

“Can we play it right now?” Dipper asked, eyes bright. Ford glanced at Stan, waiting to hear what he said. It was more fun with the more people who played.

“How much work will it be to actually play? I seem to remember a whole lotta graph paper. It was like _Homework: the Game_ back then.”

Dipper didn’t look discouraged, despite the way Stan seemed to hedge around answering the question.

“Leave that up to Great Uncle Stanford and me! He can run the dungeon and we’ll take care of all your stats and explaining everything, you can just choose what character and class you want to be. It’ll be so much fun with more than just me, _please_! Mabel, you too.” Dipper turned from Stan to Mabel, begging for them to agree.

“Hmmmmm, can my character spray glitter from her fingertips?”

Dipper squinted his eyes but sighed a little and agreed to that.

“Sounds good! Ducktective Marathon is pushed to another day anyway. Now we can have some family bonding time with our newest mystery Grunkle and our newest youngest Grunkle!”

With both kids looking up at Stan expectantly, he finally softened up to answer.

“Alright you munchkins, I’m in. It might even be fun.”

Ford snorted a little, and Stan turned up to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Sorry, but if all it took to get you to play d, d, and more d with me would be to get two cute kids to ask, I would’ve hired the neighbor kids years ago.” Ford grinned and Stan looked like he wanted to flip him off, barely catching himself in front of the kids.

“To the card table!” Mabel snagged the box from Dipper’s hands and he chased her to the living room card table, the two of them arguing quietly as Dipper picked up a thick rule book.

Ford offered one hand down to Stan, who was still kneeling on the floor from when he’d spun Dipper around earlier. Stan took it and Ford heaved him up, knees cracking greatly. Despite having time to study his brother in the kitchen this morning, it was hard getting used to looking at this slightly older Stanley. He was bigger than his thirty year old self was yesterday. His hair had the beginnings of gray on the sides. It was shorter than the mullet he’d had, but still wavy. Ford started a little as he realized he hadn’t let go of Stan’s hand as he studied him.

“Sorry,” he said, dropping Stan’s hand and putting both of his behind his back. “It’s just strange to see you so young, Stan.”

Stan shrugged, eyes roving over Ford’s appearance. “About as strange as it is to see you so old.” That regretful expression came over Stan’s face again, but before Ford could ask what it was about, Stan turned, popping his back and heading upstairs. “I’m gonna go put on some pants. I’ll be down in a jiffy,” he called out so the kids could hear him too.

“It’s pronounced _giffy_ , I think,” Mabel replied, and she and Dipper erupted into giggles as they spilled out the dice.

-

Ford could potentially have _a lot_ of material to build an on the fly d, d, and more d campaign, honestly, just by drawing on his experiences from the portal in the last thirty years. However, a good portion of that time would be unsuitably inappropriate in front of the children, personal stories of horror he’d rather not share, or just plain boring travelling. That wouldn’t convince the other two to take it semi-seriously. So he just draws on what he can.

After making notes and calculating stats and drawing up a few character sheets for his fabrications, Ford marked out the path they should be taking through his proposed dungeon. He hid his notes behind the game board, letting the box stand between him and the possibility of prying eyes to make the game go faster. Dipper was trying to run Mabel through character creation from memory and his own completed sheet while Stan skimmed the book’s examples.

Ford kept an eye out to make sure neither Mabel nor Stan overpowered themselves, but they seemed to do a decent job. Stan surprised Ford a little by going for a rogue character instead of a straight fighter. He stayed human, and snuck a few weapons that Ford didn’t think strictly spoke to the rogue classification, but _character weapons_ wasn’t the hill he wanted to die on with his brother.

Nearly causing the end of the world by stupidly restarting a dangerous portal seemed the more appropriate reason to yell, but that could wait until after the game. Dipper was looking too excited to put a damper on his fun. Ford could limit himself to exasperated sighs at Stan’s ridiculousness and turned his attention back to the game-play creation.

Across from him he listened as Dipper cleverly created a way for Mabel to use glitter in her character. He adapted her class of bard to allow her “instrument” to be either her voice or one other, as she reached higher levels, and incorporated glitter into the names/abilities of her attacks/powers as a result of her bard magic. It was really quite intriguing, Dipper’s ability to adapt and generate something new for his sister. A very smart young man.

“Hey, Ford is there a limit to how much gold I can start out with orrrrr what? ‘Cause I can see myself having stolen a pretty penny before meeting up with these two crazy characters.”

“I’m going to limit you to 35 gold no matter what number you try and say you have. And I will keep track.”

Stan scowled and crossed something out on his page, muttering _“spoilsport_ ,” under his breath, but seconds later he was smiling again.

Once all the set-up was completed Ford cleared his throat and begin weaving a spoken tapestry of adventure and intrigue, hoping to catch his family’s attention and make the opening dungeon sound enticing. Dipper looked to be straining to keep still and listen closely, hand still making a clicking motion as if he held a pen. Mabel was listening but fiddling with her dice. And Stan was staring at him, an expression Ford didn’t have time to decipher on his face. If he was already bored, that was his problem. They promised to play with the kids, so Stan better act like he’s having fun.

Ford tried to slow-ball into the first scenario, leading them from one easier dungeon to a progressively harder one. And at first they all seemed to play along pretty well. But it wasn’t long before he was having to run on-the-fly calculations for stats of characters that they were supposed to outwit, not fight, or need a _charisma_ score for, or what have you.

He hadn’t spent enough time with Mabel yet to know that she would try to charm so many creatures before blatantly attacking them (with glitter of course). _Vicious Glittery Mockery_ was a particularly effective spell from her, and with many interesting combinations of insults to their enemies.

Dipper tended to stick to the spirit and nature of his wizard’s spells, and got into the action of using a character voice, but his rolls were atrocious, and kept accidentally setting them down a harder path. Ford would feel bad if he were only playing Dipper.

Stan confused him the most as a player. He seemed so relaxed and distant from the game, but his movements had layers of strategy Ford wasn’t sure Stan realized was there. He’d gamble on the riskiest of actions and they’d nearly always pay off. Stan was a wizard, not a rogue, with that 38-sided die.

“Long odds are what I live for. Now, let’s play fast and loose with this bad boy. Papa needs a new pair of _twins!_ ” he shook the dice and rolled, defeating an immensely powerful creature in a constant game of “who’s at your shoulder” and poking the monster into annoyance and, eventually, death. Ford was reluctant but awed at the audacity to pull a creative move like that. He certainly wished that would have worked when he’d fought the beast in Dimension Xanthrepes-4. Dipper and Mabel cheered, and Ford allowed them to salvage from the monster’s hoard before they faced their final enemy, the evil—

“Probabilitor! I should have known it was you,” Dipper cried in a deep voice, his voice cracking only once as he got into the action of the scene.

Ford pulled an evil laugh from his memory, pitching it lower than the triangle’s had been, but still feeling a chill run through him at invoking his greatest enemy here. He would tone it down, next time.

Ford took to his latest role, taunting the party, pointing out how Probabilitor has been watching them. He mocks each of them by pointing out their character’s weakness. He rolls and tells them the damage Probabilitor has done to them with his words before revealing Probabilitor’s plot. As he talks to each of them, Dipper is consulting the rule book, muttering to himself. Mabel laughs it off, hollering some brave threat. Stan has gotten slowly more and more invested in the game, yet as Probabilitor relates how foolhardy and brash Stan’s character has been acting, Stan himself seems to shrink down lower to the carpet.

Ford reveals Probabilitor’s plan to eat their brains, and all three let out a noise of disgust. They proceed to fight off his final creatures and distractions in just as twisted and interesting ways that they’ve done all game, and Ford is having some of the most fun he’s had in _years_ doing so. Finally, though, the right combination of rolls, ideas, and pluckiness gets the best of him.

“And so you have defeated the evil Probabilitor. You are laden with treasures and jewels and tiny figurines of ducks made of sandalwood.”

“Why would a math wizard have—“

“But alas! Trouble still brews within the land’s earth. For there is one dangerous mission left that awaits you, should you choose to accept it—“

“Like James Bond! Can I be glitter James Bond?”

“No Mabel, just let him finish, I want to know what the mission is.”

Ford ignored the interruptions and kept going, driving home the latest on-the-fly idea he’d had in the middle of their previous adventure. “Your mission would be to rescue Princess Unattainabelle from the cursed dungeon she’s trapped in, and possibly gain more than riches as a reward! Or you can retire early and safe with all of your loot. The choice is to the party.”

“Oh! _More than riches_? Is it true love?” Mabel asked, somehow her eyes becoming little hearts. Ford decided he would have to run a preliminary test on the family later. They seemed almost superhuman at times. Especially when Mabel was excited. Nevertheless Ford endeavored to make himself clearer.

“I misspoke. I meant titles or land, alongside your loot.”

Dipper spoke up as he scribbled something illegible into his game notebook. “But she’s really well placed to be a secret, stolen away sister to the former prince! Like in the original lore.”

Ford nods, then catches himself. “Well. You shall see if there is any hidden relationships once you rescue the Princess.”

“ _If_ we rescue the Princess,” Stan interjects, crossing his arms, his grumpy reluctance making another appearance. Ford tries to hold back a sigh. _Of course_ his brother just wanted to end the game as quickly as possible. Before Ford had a chance to combat that, however, Mabel and Dipper spoke up.

“What? Come on, Grunkle Stan! Of course we’re gonna save the princess! It’s what we’re supposed to do! Plus I finally learned how to use the glitter powers Dipper promised.”

Dipper fiddled with some dice, rolling it and then picking it up without looking at the result. “I mean if you really hate it so much you can stop playing, I guess.”

Ford looked at Dipper and felt a pang in his gut. It reminded him of when he was a kid and could never get anyone else to go along with his ideas. Well, anyone except Stanley. And even then, his “nerd games” were a stretch.

Ford shot a glare over at Stan, but his brother wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at Dipper, chewing his lip. In a moment the uncertain look on Stan’s face was dropped and he waved his hand in front to get Dipper’s attention.

“Hey, kiddo, you didn’t let me finish. _If_ we rescue the Princess, then we’re gonna need a plan. And it sounds like flashy wizard and glitter bard are gonna need a sneak thief like me to help.” He points at each child as he names their character. Stan smiles and hunkers down closer to the board. Dipper looks up, suddenly all smiles and big eyes.

“Yes! How far away is the dungeon, Grunkle Ford?” Ford is a little shocked at Stan’s change of heart. He feels a slice of bitterness weave through him that Stan was never that agreeable at trying to cheer him up, but he ignored it in favor of checking his notes and answering Dipper’s question.

Overall the next segment of their session went smoother. Everybody was very engaged in the story, in plotting ways around obstacles, of thinking about things in-universe and overcoming them. Even Stan was really starting to buckle down into the role-playing aspect. Though that led to more than a couple of times when he and Stan would butt heads.

Dipper and Mabel were having a small argument about how much they could _really_ control an NPC between the two of their spells and charm, and whether or not that was wrong, taking their argument to the kitchen while they refilled on game snacks, while Ford was running a hand through his hair, trying to _calmly_ inform his brother his character couldn’t do _that_.

“It’s just not what rogues do, Stanley! They are sneaky and they use tools and their wits, not their fists! I let this go in the easy dungeons, but—“

“Hey, it’s _my_ character, and _I’m_ gonna decide what they can and can’t do.”

“But I’m the dungeon master, and I will not let you. That’s not in my rules, and it’s not how we’ll play it. That’s out of character for rogue types anyway, they’re more rigid than that.”

“Then my guy is a bad rogue! Maybe he doesn’t want to be a thief all the time. Maybe he wants to be able to throw a punch instead of sneaking past the trap like a coward every time, okay? Didn’t there used to be some sorta multi-class for that? I’m deciding right now that my dumbass rogue is gonna use those brass knuckles he swiped from Dixon the Dastardly in the third dungeon and I’m gonna wipe the floor with these kobold punks, and you’re gonna let me roll to do it Mr. Dumb Keeper.”

Sweet Moses, his brother was infuriating! And yet one question slipped through his mind and out his mouth in a scornful curiosity. “How did _you_ know about multi-classing anyway, knucklehead?”

Stan, who’d been pointing and piping mad a second before, looked embarrassed now. “Uhh, it’s in the rules I read earlier.”

Ford shook his head. “No, it’s in the advanced rule book Dipper hasn’t let go of all day.”

“Well, it’s in the rules somewhere. So why can’t you just let me do it?”

“Fine,” Ford snapped. Stan wrote something down and picked up his dice, lightly shuffling them in his hands until Dipper and Mabel returned. They seemed to settle their own argument a bit calmer in the kitchen. They both have goofy smiles and Mabel was playfully dragging Dipper by the sleeve.

“What have I done? I’ve created a monster and now she won’t let us leave til this quest is completed!” he said, dramatically flopping to the ground, knocking Mabel over. They collapsed into a fit of giggles and attempted to straighten up, asking where they left off. Before Ford could answer, Stan did.

“Sixer here just kindly agreed to let my character multi-class, so I’m a rogue _and_ a fighter now, officially. So I just shifted my stats a tiny bit aaaaaand presto!” he rolled his dice with gusto, and he got a 35 on his attack.

“Hot Belgium waffles! Still got it. Thanks, Ford, for letting me change my character.” Stan slipped that last part in a bit quieter, but it still caught Ford off guard. Stan wasn’t looking at him, and the kids were talking about something else in the game-play, now. But all the same Ford feels a little caught-out. Stan didn’t need to thank him for anything. Stan never used to thank anybody. He’d just do what he wanted or he’d get permission and run with it. They were never big on the verbal politeness, growing up.

For a moment he was suspicious that Stan said that only to prompt a thank you from him in return, and he tensed, thinking about the rift downstairs. But—Stan didn’t know about their conversation last night. He feels a momentary pang of guilt at the memory of following Stan upstairs and seeing that-that display of-

Ford doesn’t want to think about it. He assigns that memory to a distant part of his brain, along with Stan in the kitchen this morning, and focuses back on the game.

Stan occasionally unnerves him, his protective instincts taking over about Princess Unattainabelle and how he’s gonna get her back to the kingdom or die trying. At one point Dipper’s character argues that they should turn back, the danger is too much, and they don’t even really know the princess. Maybe it would be safer for them to rest and send a quest later?

Ford was amazed at how fully immersed Stan became in answering, even talking in a lower pitch when he combated Dipper’s idea.

“Hey, no matter how hard or dangerous or how far away he is, I’m not gonna give up on getting him back. That’s just how it is, Emmerick.”

“You mean how far away the princess is, Grunkle Stan?”

Stan blinks, looking confused. “Yeah, of course. That’s what I said. Now let’s go! I can steal you a healing potion in the next couple rooms. Probably.”

Ford grips his pencil so tightly it almost breaks. The others don’t notice. They play for another hour before finally, they rescue the princess from her prison. Ford watched Stan closely. His brother didn’t seem to be aware of the slip up, but the kids kept shooting them glances.

And of course as he’d thought earlier, there’s _no way_ Stan would have known what he’d said to Ford last night that had so disturbed him. Stan had echoed his words from in front of the mirror. Maybe a little out of order, but all the same.

Apparently time hadn’t changed Stan much at all. Still just as stubborn and reckless as he always was. Evident even in this game.

They wrapped up the game, the Princess thanking her rescuers and accompanying them back to her kingdom to reward their bravery and sacrifice.

Afterward the younger twins were goofing and laughing and Mabel finally admitted she had a better time than she thought she would. Stan thwipped Dipper’s hat, pushing it down and then up again, calling him a good kid, and thanks for convincing him to give it a try.

Ford slips down to the basement to check on the progress of the rift. He thinks he sees the others scuttle off to their own rooms. He doesn’t really have a space except for the basement, and he’s got a lot of work to do anyway.

The game was an excellent distraction, and very fun to engage in after so many years. His last game must have been in college, with, hmm… he’d have to ask after Fiddleford’s welfare, if he’s still around or even still in Gravity Falls, soon. Ford hopes his friend found a way to move on from their project that wasn’t that dam gun. He feels a massive wave of guilt run through him when he thinks about how everything he’s gone through for thirty years could have been avoided if he’d just listened to Fiddleford when he had the chance.

Ford decided he’d ask tomorrow, or possibly after Stan resumed his typical age. He could wait a few days on seeking those results. With that decided, he turned his mind back to the problem at hand. How to protect the world from what amounts to what looks like a space-themed snow globe.

He spends most of the next few hours down in the basement, breaking down the portal piece by piece, everything he couldn’t do last night. It’s work that needs attention, you can’t just take a sledgehammer to something like this and expect that to do the job. He breaks each component he can get his hands on to its most base parts. It’s nearly five o’clock before someone tries to rouse him from the basement.

“Great Uncle Ford?” Dipper calls somewhat hesitantly down the stairs. “We’re going to make dinner. Do you want to help?”

Ford looked up, startled at the noise. He’s drenched in sweat despite his rolled up sleeves. His hands are a mess of machine oil and rust and almost minuscule cuts from the metal he’s been breaking down all day. Littered around him are dozens of small parts from the machine. He takes a few steps back, surveying his work so far.

“One moment, Dipper. I’ll be up soon. Go ahead and start dinner without me.”

Dipper calls out a hesitant affirmation before Ford hears the door click shut and he’s alone in the basement once more. Despite how much he’s gotten done, it doesn’t feel like enough. The outline of the portal is still very evident. All the damage it had gone through yesterday and the work he’d done this afternoon had not changed the overall shape enough to suit him. The large inverted triangle was still clear. A monument to his folly and blindness, back then.

He raised his crowbar up to the next edge of metal, prying one more segment of the portal away from the wall, wishing he could reverse time, stop himself from ever making such a foolish mistake. But the tearing of metal and the _riiiiip_ it makes as it comes loose from the surrounding structure is a satisfying noise. The high screech grounds him in what he’s doing.

He’s making amends, trying to protect whatever he can, left. He’s cleaning up after the mess Stanley rebuilt and made ten times messier. He drops the crowbar in favor of a specialized drill he’d invented in his travels, and begins rending the materials within the metal apart.

Occasionally a spark from the drill will fly off and cut into his skin, but he relishes in the sting. Reminds him of the never-ending penance for what he’s done to his dimension. Of what he’s done in countless dimensions. Perhaps he borrowed too heavily from his 30-year journey in the game today, for it was all he could think of as he destroyed the portal. Everything he was forced to do, forced to become. All in the name of surviving another day, of finding a way to defeat Bill. Of protecting his home, even if he could never return to it.

He gets lost in what he’s doing, again, in the memories clawing at his skull and the steady, persistent sounds of metal being destroyed and left inert. Of staring at his greatest achievement and greatest failure, all in one. Another voice calls down the basement stairs, for him.

“Dinner’s ready, Grunkle Ford! You shouldn’t let it get cold,” Mabel called down to him. “And if you’re not upstairs in one minute, I’m gonna come down there and shrink you, and regrow you up here, so we can all eat together!”

Ford was briefly intrigued at the idea that his great-niece had the technology to shrink and grow objects, and especially biological life forms, but he shook his head and focused back on what he was doing. He switches off his drill and hides it within a trench coat pocket hanging over his desk chair. He rolled his sleeves down as he started toward the stairs and Mabel started counting down from 30 in a loud voice.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming, one moment,” he said, checking the Rift was still secure before making his way to the stairs.

Once up there Mabel skips off, leading him by one hand to the kitchen where Dipper and Ford are already digging in to a lasagna recipe he hasn’t seen in over 40 years. Mabel drags him to the only open chair and he lets her, sitting him down and then running to her chair on the other side.

Ford serves himself a slice, taking a bite and for a moment he’s melted back to the other side of the country, Ma’s cooking, and family dinner around their small kitchen table in Glass Shard Beach. It’s weird, and too strange, and the child in front of him that looks very similar to he and Stanley at that age, and Stan an age he never got to meet beside him, it’s too much.

Ford grunts in appreciation of the flavor, but he doesn’t try to make conversation.

He listens as Dipper and Mabel talk about what they did with their days.

“Mabel, I’m not sure making the gnomes angry is the best plan,” Stan says, shoveling another forkful of lasagna in.

“They started it!  Besides, we know how to control Jeff with squirrels pretty well now, and as long as they quit with all that _queen_ business, we won’t have to teach them another lesson about messing with the Pines Twins. Right Dipper?”

“Ha, right. Besides, they’ll forget by the time we need something else from them. They seemed to have forgotten the failure with Shacktron pretty quickly.”

“Shacktron?” Stan asks. The discussion about the forest and its creatures has also drawn Ford in, despite his earlier discomfort.

Dipper and Mabel share a quick, but significant, look. “Don’t worry about it! All that matters is, gnomes are stupid-faces and easily beaten with leaf-blowers, dog whistles, or squirrel baths.”

“Eugh, enough said,” Stan shudders, setting down his fork. Ford was itching to take notes, ask questions, when the conversation turned to him.

“What’ve you been doing down in the nerd cave, Batman?”

“Dismantling the portal, Stanley,” Ford says, bypassing the nickname.

Stan’s face almost spasms at that. It flickers and seems to jump through emotions quickly. What settles on his face a moment later, however, is one of a stern hardness.

“Good. Let me know if you need any help.”

“I think you have helped the situation in the basement enough.”

Stan’s mouth tightens and pulls down at the corners. There’s a wounded look in his eye that he hides by looking down at his plate, bringing another bite back to his mouth.

“Thanks for digging up the recipe, kids. This tastes great. Didn’t think I’d have any of those old recipe cards sitting around, but whaddaya know, right?” Stan laughs, sounding forced, but the kids go along. Ford tightens his grip on his own utensil, finishing his dinner in silence.

After dinner the kids scampered off upstairs, and Stan turned to the sink, just like that morning. Ford stood, debating helping with the dishes again. He saw Stan peek around at him a few times, as if making sure he was still there. Finally Ford sighed and brought over the larger dishware, letting it soak while he rinsed the plates Stan handed him.

“Thanks for helping with the dishes,” Stan says, and Ford just nods.

That evening he’d been viscerally reminded of all the harm the portal could have caused. His brief encounter with Bill the other day. How strange it was to have downtime at home, now that he was _home_ at all. Especially when he expected to be dead.

Seeing the portal had been… emotional. The day and a half since he’d been _back_ was emotional as well. It was strange and despite not leaving the house, everything was too different, too out of place, too wrong. Especially Stan. Even knowing he had a great niece and nephew didn’t seem as strange as seeing his brother at half his own age.

They did the rest of the dishes quietly, Ford in a contemplative quiet. When they were finished they both walked to the living room, seeming unable or unwilling to go back to whatever they were doing before, but not quite ready to talk. Stan sits in his yellow chair, Ford leans against the wall.

Finally the stalemate is broken as Stan sighs deeply, too deep for a man who is less than forty should know how to sigh. It is full of all the emotion Ford can’t let himself feel, yet.

“I had a feeling that the game was pretty realistic for ya, earlier. Were all those monsters things you had to deal with on the other side of the portal?” Stan asks, not quite meeting his eyes.

Ford is taken off guard by his question. He hadn’t thought he’d appeared much different than usual when creating the monsters and traps from memory but—well, he supposes Stan wouldn’t have a baseline for him to compare to. Except whatever Ford was like as a teen. But he was sure his tells and behaviors had changed radically since then, right?

Ford folded his arms behind his back, straightening. “I drew on the memories of various encounters to fabricate the scenarios I presented you and the kids with, yes.”

Stan looks at him, at where he’s folded against the wall, then down at his lap. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Ford looks away. “It’s in the past,” is all he can say. A thousand apologies can’t make up for what has happened. He’s alive right now. He made it. And he even kept the memory to be used in a game. Stan shouldn’t care so much about what happened to him anyway. He hadn’t thought much of Stan while he was in the portal. And small tendrils of guilt were sprouting each time Stan brought up how much he regretted Ford being pushed in.

The silence pervades yet again, and yet again Stan is the one to break it. Mercifully, with a new, very important point of discussion.

“Ford,” he says, looking a different type of tired. A pained look stretching and scrunching his face simultaneously. “Ford, I don’t want the kids here tomorrow morning. I almost took a swing at them this morning. And yesterday too, apparently. There’s no telling how I’ll react tomorrow, but it’s a safe bet it’ll be the same. I don’t wanna risk that. Maybe I’ll age the next twenty years and it won’t be a problem. But we don’t know that.” Stan looked at Ford beseechingly.

Ford nodded his head, agreeing. “That is a good point, Stanley. I’d hate to put them in another dangerous situation tomorrow morning before everything can be sorted out, if your age isn’t settled back to what it should be. Is there anyone in town they can spend the night with?”

Stan looked frustrated. “I don’t _know_ anyone, Poindexter. Anyone I _might_ call wouldn’t know me either. Let’s call the kids down and ask them.” Oh, good point. Neither of them currently had any idea about the residents of the town. As Ford had been little more than a recluse prior to his untimely departure, and Stan being a shadow of his actual age, the kids would have the best idea on who to contact for help in this regard.

Ford nodded and walked to the foot of the stairs. “Family meeting!” he called up a couple of times, and he almost missed the flash of happiness on Stan’s face as he turned back to his brother, the thundering of small feet assuring him Dipper and Mabel had received his message. Stan got his face back under control almost immediately, but that quick moment of joy at Ford calling for a _family_ meeting seemed to have shaken some of the tension from Stan’s shoulders from how they were talking earlier.

“What’s up? Are we going for round two on d, d, and more d?” Dipper asked, Mabel skipping into the room behind him.

“Because that was a lot of fun, but I’m all creativity-ed out,” Mabel added as she came to sit on the edge of the yellow, saggy armchair.

“No, we’re done for like, a week at least on that game, yeesh!” Stan said, shaking his head and shuddering jokingly at the thought.

“That’s what you say, but I bet I can convince tomorrow you to play again, and you’ll never know you played a ‘nerd game’ two days in a row, old man.”

Ford cleared his throat before Stan could pull Dipper into a noogie or any of them could get into an actual argument about it.

“Actually, children, that is somewhat of the reason we’ve called this meeting. Stanley’s state tomorrow, to be specific.”

Ford looked to his brother and saw Stan biting his lip, rubbing the back of his neck, not looking anyone in the eye. He’d have to be the one to run this meeting. He returned his position to have folded arms behind his back and squared his shoulders.

“So far in the two days that this has happened, you children have been put in danger three different times by both Stan and myself because of the lack of context we both had. Stan isn’t remembering you when he wakes up each morning. We don’t know how much he will age in one night. Will a pattern form, and tomorrow he is 46? We don’t know. But Stan and I believe it will be safer for you two if you stayed the night at a friend’s house. Then in the morning we can come collect you once I’ve explained the situation to him in a calm environment.”

Mabel sat up straight and looked at Stan in alarm. “But we want to be here with you, tomorrow! We only get a few days of young grunk, and we want to soak it all up!”

Stan smiled big at that, but it fell from his face somewhat as he spoke. “Aw kiddo, I love hanging out with you guys too, but I don’t want to put you in danger. Not again. I-I can’t imagine that my reactions to surprises really mellowed out over the years, sweetie. This is for you and Dipper’s safety.”

“I guess we could call Soos or Wendy maybe?” Dipper volunteered.

“No, wait, Tambry updated her status saying no one could hang out because everyone’s re-building after the “earthquake.” I bet Wendy’s family is stuffed with orders from around town.”

“Oh shoot, you’re right. And Soos called and said he’d swing by tomorrow, part of his ceiling caved in and he’s been fixing it for his abuelita. Well who else do we know?”

“Hmm, there’s Pacifica? But a sleepover there sounds creep-tacular and also terrible.”

Dipper and Mabel shared a significant look and twin shudders at the prospect.

“Oh! I know,” Mabel brightened up, pulling her cell phone from one pocket. She’d explained it to Ford earlier when they’d taken a snack break in the kitchen, but the vast differences between technologies in the portal to home and over time always left him in a strange mix curious and exhausted. “We can go to Grenda’s house! Everything there is already reinforced to prevent her strength from messing it up. Let me call her! You can bunk with her brother.” She dialed and turned around, talking to her friend.

Ford looked over at Stan, who also had no idea who any of these people were, and back at the kids as Mabel turned and spoke rapidly into her cellphone, twirling a piece of her sweater in one hand as she did so.

A couple minutes later, Mabel turned around and snapped her phone shut, a huge grin on her face.

“It’s all set up! Grenda’s mom offered to drive over and pick us up so we could listen to the new Pop Tunez CD that came out.”

“Great, kiddo. Why don’t you two go pack an overnight bag and Ford and I will pick ya up in the morning. Sound good?”

The kids chorused an _Okay!_ And raced each other back up the stairs. Dipper seemed less than enthused at bunking at Grenda’s house, but he was agreeable.

They see the kids off, giving both Stanley and himself hugs before heading out. Stan waves after the mini-van as it leaves, long after the dust clears from where the tires kicked it up and the taillights have disappeared.

When it’s just them two, Ford has a moment of panic that a repeat of the mirror situation will occur. But Stan just turns to him, chewing his lip, but with a hopeful expression.

“So… I gathered that some bad shit happened to you while you were in there. But… was it all bad? Do you have any good memories? Anything that wasn’t terrible?”

“Why do you want to know? You won’t even remember tomorrow.”

“All the more reason to tell them! You won’t have to worry about me bringing them back up to ya. Plus,” Stan rubs the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “It might help me to fall asleep. If all I can think about is the hell you musta gone through with even half of the creatures you talked about today, I won’t be able to catch a wink.” Stan walked away and back again. After some time when Ford was thinking about how to answer, Stan started again.“But you don’t have to say anything! I’m just being selfish. Heh, what else is new, right? I’m just gonna hit the sack. Night.”

Stan turns to leave but Ford catches his arm. He’d caught a glimpse of the expression Stan had had last night, just before the sock to his jaw. He didn’t want to think about sending Stan off to that again.

They sat down on the yellow couch, Ford hesitantly sharing a few stories. A few of the kind souls he’d met, or friendly dimensions. He didn’t say anything about Jheselbraum. That was something he still needed to journal over, to process all the bad with the good of their meeting, now that he was home, and his purpose was interrupted.

But he told stories for an hour before the lack of sleep from the last couple days caught up with him. He was nodding back against the old soft headrest when Stan nudged him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Sixer, you should get some sleep. How long has it been this time, huh?”

Ford grumbled but stood, stretching. Stan stood with him. “Night, Stanford. It—it’s good to have you back.” Stan smiles and heads off to his room, leaving Ford to his former bedroom. Now it only had the couch, a couple filing cabinets, a table, and his old desk. But the couch was inviting enough for him. He laid down and fell asleep almost immediately.

And he had nightmares of one of the worst monsters from his experiences. A dreamscape appearance by none other than Bill Cipher.

 

-

Stan thought about the day. The good and the bad. The inexcusable bursts of tears and panic. He thought about what Pops would’ve said. Even now, he can’t shake the immediate shame his dad would’ve handed him about his reactions. He shook his head, sitting down on the bed, hard. He thought about the kids. Such good kids, dam. He didn’t know what their family did to deserve ‘em, but it couldn't have had anything to do with him, that’s for sure.

And Ford. Hell, his _brother was back_. And pissed as hell at him, if any of the numerous remarks and dirty looks were to be believed. But Ford was _back_ and there was nothing that was going to stop him from being happy about that.

All those years, too long, too _slow_ , _too stupid._ His brother was trapped and running for thirty years, and he tried to insert them into a fucking children’s game. It’s the only thing he had on hand. Stan remembered games they’d used to play as kids. The details were fuzzy but despite how boring it could be, Ford always created games that were hopeful and exploratory and infused with way too many aliens.

This game was darker, no matter how many distractions Ford put into it.

He looked around his room. Everything was weird to look at, even if he recognized parts of it. He could believe this was an old man’s room, though. The denture cream and packs of tear pills and magazines called “Gold Chains for Old Men” attested to that. Stan thinks he sees a trashed copy of “Old Man Ponytail Kit” and shudders. He never wanted to have long hair again.

On the dresser he spots a book. It’s not Ford’s journal, or any of the science books he’s borrowed over the years. He scoops it up, flipping through random pages.

 _Oh_. It was one of _those_.

Over the years, Stan intermittently would make his own journals. Write down anything and everything he was thinking about. If it helped Ford, why wouldn’t it help him, he’d figured. He must’ve started it that year, for how few entries there were. Scanning the entries, he had an idea.

Stan flipped until he found a free page. He summoned the day’s events to his head, and began to write. If he wasn’t going to remember any of this tomorrow, the least he could do was leave an entry about it. For himself. Maybe future him didn’t deserve hope anymore than he did. But he’d give it to himself, all the bad looks and the amused smiles Ford had given him today. The help in the kitchen, the solidarity when they’d heard Dipper’s scream.

The stories he’d convinced Ford out of. Everything.

Stan wrote late into the night, finally falling asleep, pen in hand, book falling to the floor. And as he slept, he grew and changed once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks for sticking around for the longest time between updates, everybody. Some days I'd go back and re-read all of the wonderful comments you guys left for me on Chapter 1, so thank you for those!! They kept me motivated even when I didn't write for two months.
> 
> Hit me with any questions or tags I need to add.
> 
> Fam. This chapter was ~10,700 words. I'm /crying/. Wow. Hope you all enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Fun fact: I burst wrote about 3,000 words within the last two weeks, all to the background song of "Country Roads, Take Me Home" by John Denver.
> 
> Chapter 3 has been one of my favorites to write, so far, so with the help of NaNoWriMo as a reminder, hopefully I can churn out some more of the story faster than this update took. :D

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a long time! Each chapter will be pretty long, I think, so the updates will be pretty spaced, but I hope you like reading it as much as I love writing it. :D 
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think/feel/predict, whatever! Talk to me, fam haha
> 
>  
> 
> side note: please let me know if I forgot to tag something, thanks!


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